


Your Guide to Post-Apocalyptic LoDo: The Fishing is Fine, but Good Luck Going Gluten-Free

by abstractconcept



Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Ableist Language, Alternate Universe - Apocalypse, Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, Colorado Avalanche, Cross-Generation Relationship, Hockey, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-13
Updated: 2014-01-13
Packaged: 2018-01-08 15:36:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,731
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1134397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/abstractconcept/pseuds/abstractconcept
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the ~ap-hockey-lypse, the Avs are still hanging in there, and it feels like it's only natural for Patrick Roy to become the leader of post-doomsday Denver.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Your Guide to Post-Apocalyptic LoDo: The Fishing is Fine, but Good Luck Going Gluten-Free

**Your Guide to Post-Apocalyptic LoDo: The Fishing is Fine, but Good Luck Going Gluten-Free**  


****

****

Matt Duchene could remember the exact words he’d said when he discovered civilization really had collapsed. The mailbox building was on fire. He’d turned to Pauly and said, “Well, there goes my gluten-free diet.”

“At least it wasn't zombies,” Pauly had replied. “I always thought it'd be zombies.”

It had seemed like a joke back then, or a bad dream, or at least something that would eventually stop. 

Less a joke, now. He and Gabe Landeskog trudged down 13th. The words _As to be in plain sight_ were not; they were obscured by layers and layers of graffiti, the tags of the various gangs which had taken and retaken the area. 

They walked up to the entrance of the museum. The doors were busted, naturally. Matt took a deep breath. “Got the flashlight?” he asked. 

Landeskog scowled. “What the hell are we doing here?”

Despite the fact that Matt had asked himself that same question, he bristled. “We’re here because Patrick told us to save what we could.”

“Yeah, I know, but it’s _art_. You can’t eat art. It won’t, like, keep you warm.” Gabe turned and looked out over the city, his blue eyes hard. “It won’t protect anyone. Dutchy, we shouldn’t _be_ here. We should be making the push toward 25. That’s were the Feds have been. We need to stop ‘em. Push ‘em back.”

To agree would have been a betrayal of Patrick, so instead Matt turned back towards the entrance. “Coach says he wants art. We’re bringing him his art, end of story, all right?”

Gabe dragged a hand through his hair. “Fuck art. I’m not a fucking curator!”

Matt half-smiled. “You’re not a fucking forward, either.” His smile faded a little. “Right now, you’re a . . . a soldier. You do what you’re told. Roy says that’s art.”

Gabe gave him a sidelong look and muttered something about fucking the teacher for grades. 

Flushed, Matt unhappily walked into the museum, hearing his steps crunch as he crossed the broken glass. He didn’t bother to argue. He wasn’t being graded, and Patrick wasn’t his teacher—hell, he wasn’t even his coach. They weren’t breaking any rules. There were no rules. Not after the end of the world. 

Matt made his way past painting after painting. A lot of them were destroyed—glass broken, canvas ripped. Nobody valued art now. He found one piece that seemed relatively intact and stopped in front of it. “This,” he said. 

“ _This_ is why we’re here?” Gabe said in disbelief, shining his flashlight around. “Jesus, I’ve seen little kids draw better than that.”

“We’re not here for this, specifically. Just, you know. It’s undamaged,” Matt explained. Privately he agreed. He squinted at the rudimentary figures; he recognized a foot and a snake, simple, like something a child would draw. Beneath the painting was the name of the artist: Jean-Michel Basquiat. Then the images moved, leapt in and out of view; somewhere behind them was fire. In the light of the flames the pictures changed from post-modern art to something more primitive—cave paintings left for a more civilised mankind to discover. Matt was mesmerized. He imagined other men, actual cavemen, finding this neo-expressionist _thing_. What would _they_ think of it? Did they overthink their stuff the way people did today? Did one caveman ever grunt to the other, “I find the tension expressed between the spear and the herd of deer trite and somewhat simplistic. Can’t you render the complexity of our environment in a way that transcends, yet embraces the duality and essential truth of our existence?” And did the other caveman ever throw up his hands and yell, “For fuck’s sake, Og, can’t we just go to the game? Toogah has fifty points and is on mark to have a record season!” 

“Matt. _Dutchy_. We have trouble.”

Matt blinked a little, coming back to earth. The figures wobbled in the firelight and he turned around. There were some kids in the doorway—it was always kids. They were holding torches. Flashlights and batteries were becoming scarce, but fire never went out of style. “What do you want?” he asked them. He wondered if they were the ones who wrecked most of the museum. 

“This is our territory,” one of the kids said. 

“Okay. We were just passing through.”

This seemed to confuse them. “Ain’t no _just passin’ through_ ,” one ground out. “You in our _territory_.”

Matt wondered if they’d been in a gang before the apocalypse. They seemed pretty young, but there were plenty of kids that started young. 

“Where’d you get those flashlights?” the taller kid asked. He had greasy, blondish hair. 

“The Can,” Matt told him. 

That made the kids take a step back. The Can had gained a reputation. They had actual law at the Can. They had something like civilization. 

“Well, you shouldn’t a come outside your pretty can. We ain’t got no laws out here,” the shorter, stockier kid said. He opened his jacket a little and Matt could see a handgun. His gut clenched. 

Gabe started to move, probably to bring out his own glock, but Matt put a hand on his arm. “We just wanted to see this painting,” Matt said; he shot Gabe a look of warning, and Gabe stepped back. 

The tall kid snorted. “That’s an ugly-ass painting.” He sidled a little closer. “Fuckin’ snake looks like a retard drew it.”

Matt laughed and nodded too, stepping back, giving the kid room. “It’s pretty shitty,” he agreed. Very carefully, he took a step or two to the right, so the kid was between him and the painting. 

“And that foot, what the shit is that? A chopped-off foot and a snake that looks like a worm—people paid money to see this shit? Unreal.” The kid sneered at the painting. The other kid held back, holding the torch aloft. “I could piss on that painting and not make it any worse. Hell, I could shit on—”

Matt caught him by surprise; he just rushed him, slamming him into the wall. The painting crashed to the floor and the kid grunted. He was out, just like that.

“Hey, man! What the hell—”

Gabe held up his gun, and the tall teen dropped the torch and just ran. They usually did, if you were bigger or stronger or had more gunpower. “Shit. What do we do now?”

“Put out the fire,” Matt said calmly. He checked to make sure the shorter kid was breathing, then took his gun. He hoped he hadn’t given the guy a concussion, but you couldn’t really worry about things like that these days. At least they hadn’t shot him. He was just a kid. 

“Okay, the fire’s out.” Gabe had used his jacket; Matt could tell he wasn’t happy about that, but they could get him another jacket. The art, supposedly, was priceless. “Nice check, Dutchy,” Gabe told him with a grin. He looked down. “Sorry about the . . . you know.”

“I know.” Matt looked down. “Nice to have the chance to practice my forecheck once in a while,” Matt said with a smile. He stood up. Roy had told him to get whatever art wasn’t destroyed and bring it back. It’d be safer there, and they’d heard about lots of other museums getting burned down. It seemed weird to be worrying about art, but other people were taking care of the food and shelter and stuff, and Matt had been antsy. He wondered if Patrick wasn’t just getting him out of his hair for awhile. “Let’s pick out some art,” he told Landeskog.

“You taking that one?” Gabe asked, nodding at the untitled Basquiat. 

Matt made a face. “Naw, let’s skip that one. It doesn’t match the Can’s décor. Besides, that punk was right. It is an ugly-ass painting.”

Gabe laughed and they made their way through the museum, looking for something to salvage.

oOoOoOo

They made their way back to the Can, keeping an eye out for trouble. There wasn’t much. There were a lot of overturned cars, but the streets were pretty empty. After the initial looting, the panic, the government trying to get some kind of control, everything had just sort of receded. People banded with other people. The world had broken down into gangs. Union Station was its own city now; the trains had run for a while longer than most transportation. East Colfax had become hell and had swallowed up a good portion of the city. The suburbs were wastelands, but the mountains and ranches had supposedly fared well. He’d heard there were places up in the mountains, like in Nederland, where a man could almost be civilized—no gangs, good hunting. No electricity or water, but some places hadn’t had those anyway. They knew how to make due. But the mountains were hard, especially in winter, and Matt felt he owed it to the city to stay there and do what he could.

But the one bright light left in Denver proper was the Can. They had good people, good infrastructure, rules and sanity. Roy ran the place like a benevolent god. Matt wasn’t sure how that’d happened, but it was only natural that the team look to the coach when things were bad. And Patrick was good about being optimistic, telling them things would get better. And other people had liked hearing it, too. Patrick Roy had charisma, had an aura of strength and power. Matt knew it before the end of the world; everything about Patrick Roy radiated _winner_. Now people huddled around him like moths drawn to the one unbroken bulb surrounded by darkness. 

“What the hell is going on?” Gabe wondered. There was a crowd outside the Can, milling about, laughing. There was some kind of giddiness bubbling through the people on the street. The atmosphere felt like almost like a tailgate party. 

Matt pushed his way through the crowd. “Let’s ask,” he told Gabe. 

Patrick Roy was standing at the top of the steps, hands on his hips, smiling. He looked like the fucking mayor of the post-apocalyptic Pepsi Center. People were shaking his hand and slapping him on the back and everything. Patrick was beaming, and Matt had to smile. He’d never known anyone who could swagger while standing still, but Patrick Roy managed it. For a moment all his fears and doubts slipped away and he let that old-fashioned awe wash over him, that same faith he’d had in Patrick when he was a kid. Patrick Roy could do _anything._

“What happened?” Gabe asked him. 

“We got the park back today,” Patrick said. 

“You what?”

“We took Elitch Garden. We send in some men in and we root out the Feds,” Patrick told them in his choppy French-Canadian accent.

Landeskog looked perplexed. “Oh. Well, great. By this time next summer, maybe we can make the big push and overthrow the guys at Casa Bonita. I sure have missed their food. Hell, now we have bumper cars to drive there; that oughta be a big help.”

Patrick stuck a finger in his face. “ _Don’t_ be a wiseass,” he snapped. “You know what I always say. You win one game at a time. You build on that. We can take this city back. The government, they’re not going to do it for us. Why not us? We push, we work hard, we see results. Today we have a result. We have a win. Enjoy it,” Patrick urged. “You gotta build confidence.”

Gabe shrugged and blew out a breath. “If you say so.”

“I say so.” Patrick gave him a hard look and Landeskog shifted his weight, looking down. Roy had ways of telling you he might be older now, but he was still the alpha dog. “You got the stuff?”

“Wasn’t much undamaged,” Gabe told him. “But we got what we could.” He gestured down the stairs where a dolly stacked with art waited. 

“Take it round the back. Pauly’s back there and he can help you unload it. Then I wanna make plans for tomorrow.”

“Yes, coach,” Gabe said. He trotted down the stairs, but Matt didn’t follow. He couldn’t believe he’d been left out of such an important play.

He looked at Patrick. “You took back the park,” he said flatly. 

Patrick must have known he was in trouble; he didn’t meet Matt’s eyes. “Yeah, we got the park back, no problem. We—”

“Then why did you send me and Gabe off on some throwaway crap job? We could have helped.” Matt was angry, really angry. It was dangerous out there, and he was strong, and they could use that strength. Why couldn’t Patrick see that?

Patrick let out a long, long breath. “Come on,” he finally said. He walked down the steps. 

“Will you answer me?” Matt demanded. 

Patrick half turned. “Yeah, Dutchy, I answer you _if you follow me_.” 

Matt realized that people were staring, and he felt his face grow warm. He knew what they were thinking—that it was some kind of lovers’ spat. He followed Patrick, still quietly steaming. He led Matt west, and it didn’t take long before he realized they were headed to the theme park. There were guards by the bridge—their men, keeping an eye out. The park had been abandoned almost since the night the world ended—what the hell good was a roller coaster to people who needed water and basic necessities? But then a gang had moved into the area—a real tough group from Federal. They’d been pushing east for awhile, and everyone had gotten nervous when they made their way into the theme park, since it was in the Can’s backyard. The boys had made several attempts to drive them out, but they had a lot of weapons, and Roy didn’t want to lose anyone. 

“What do you think they wanted with the theme park, anyway?” Matt asked as they entered the place. 

“I don’t think they want the park at all. They just want what we got, and they were pushing for us.”

Matt frowned. The Can was a place of relative bounty and safety. There were also a lot of innocent people there. He hated the thought of something happening to them, especially if it happened when he was out _curating art_ instead of playing defence. “Where are we going?” he asked as Patrick led him through the mostly empty grounds. He spotted a guard patrolling here and there, but it was so empty compared the days of warm summers filled with children and the scent of churros and hot dogs. 

“I got something to show you,” Patrick told him. They made their way under the colourful spines of the roller coasters, through the park to the Ferris wheel. There were a couple of guys there working on the controls. 

Matt stopped short. “Are you—no way. Noooooo way,” he said, giving Patrick a look.

“What? It’s safe, trust me. Come on. Are you scared of heights?” Patrick grinned at Matt discomfort, dimple showing, eyes sparkling. “Really? You think I’d let something happen to you? You’re my elite player.”

“Yeah, because a really good NHL center is just what you need after the apocalypse,” Matt said sarcastically.

“Eh, you never know. We break the world, maybe we fix it again. Come on,” Patrick said again. Matt followed him reluctantly onto one of the cars. “Up we go, there, guys,” Patrick barked. One of the men at the controls nodded and moved something, and the ferris wheel lurched into motion. 

Matt looked around in awe. “You did it. How did you do that?”

“As of 12:15 this afternoon, we have electricity,” Patrick declared proudly. “Back on the grid.” The wheel continued to climb into the sky; when they were at the apex, Patrick gave a whistle, and it stopped. 

“Oh, wow,” Matt said softly. He could see the city stretch out to the mountains. The sun was beginning to set, but no lights were coming on to the west. Everything remained dark. But no matter how grim things were, he couldn’t help but smile a little. He loved Colorado, he really did, and the panorama of the Rockies, tipped with white snow, the sky behind them beginning to blaze as the sun set, never failed to set him at ease. 

Matt noticed Patrick watching him, smiling, and he blushed. “I had a feeling you would like the view,” Patrick said smugly. He put a hand on Matt’s knee. “I like the view as well.”

Cheesy, really cheesy. And a calculated distraction. Matt wasn’t falling for that. “Why didn’t you let me and Gabe fight?” he asked again. 

Patrick sighed. “Dutchy—”

“Did anyone get hurt? Please tell me no one got hurt because I wasn’t there.”

“Nobody got hurt,” Patrick promised. He looked wistfully at Matt. “You got to stop putting the world on your shoulders. You can’t do it all alone.”

“And you can’t do it without me,” Matt flung back. “That’s what a team is. Isn’t the whole supposed to be greater than the sum of the parts?”

Patrick looked surprised. Then he laughed. “Well, you know your lines, eh? All right. Maybe it’s true. Maybe I need to accept when you take a risk.”

“I’m pretty tough, you know,” Matt said, thinking of the fight today, and dozens of other fights he’d won on these increasingly tough streets. “I’m not afraid to go toe to toe with anyone.”

Patrick’s smile turned nostalgic, bitter-sweet. “You shouldn’t have to. That’s what enforcers are for.”

Matt had to smile at that. The enforcers, the goons, were seeing a new heyday. The tough guys were important again, and putting the puck in the net was a meaningless skill. But that was okay, in a way, because you learned to do other things, and anyway, Matt could fight, too. Heck, he’d even had to play nurse once or twice in some bad situations. For all its problems, this post-apocalyptic Denver had taught him what was _really_ important in life. And, funny enough, most of the important things were the same anyway, like the team, his _family_ , trust, commitment, strength, everything. It meant he had their back, and they had his—all that kind of thing. They just did it on the streets now, instead of the ice. And they still had Patrick looking out for them. 

Matt grinned. “Well, maybe I could stand to take a day off. I could go fishing in the Platte. I mean—you know. There’s always carp.” He looked out at the mountains again. “This is the best thing I’ve seen since—”

“Don’t,” Patrick interrupted. 

The Event. The Bad Thing. The Thing of Which We Do Not Speak. The world had gone mad that day. Matt didn’t even know how it happened, really, or why. One minute the world was sane. The next minute, riots. Why? Because riots suddenly seemed reasonable. Up was down, left was right, the world had just plain stopped making any sense. And when the world stops making sense, people panic. It started in New York and spread from there. The National Guard had been called in, but they couldn’t stop it. People just went insane and turned on each other. Looting, riots, vandalism, chaos. The skin of humanity had been peeled back, and there was anarchy. That’s what it was. That’s what had birthed it. Anarchy. It had swept across the land, this madness, coming from the east like the sun, and when the sun had finished rising, the world, or at least North America, had stopped being able to function. Matt shuddered.

“Hey, it’s okay,” Patrick told him. “Come here.” He slipped an arm around Matt’s shoulders and Matt shut his eyes, leaning against his coach. Not that he was a coach, anymore. On the other hand, what else would you call him? Coach still fit. The coach of the city. After the riots, the team had formed its own sort of gang, and people had come to them. Why not them? They were young and strong, and they belonged to the city, and they knew it. And Patrick led them all, former goalie, then coach, then leader of a troupe of Denverites after the end of the world. 

Matt sighed, resting his head on Patrick’s shoulder. A year or so ago, this would have been wrong. Now it was about the only time he felt safe and right. The world really had turned upside down. “I never thought it could happen,” he said hollowly. Who would have believed the world would end that way—or that he’d still be there afterwards? “I can’t believe it,” Matt repeated, shaking his head and feeling numb. “I just can’t believe the Buffalo Sabres won the Stanley Cup.” Who'd have guessed that would be the catalyst for a meltdown of doomsday proportions?

“I know,” Patrick murmured. “No one ever could have imagined it happening like that. But we’re okay now, _mon trésor_. Look.” Patrick pointed. Matt looked, and suddenly he noticed lights were coming on all around them. In the midst of the darkness, shadowed by the looming black hulks of skyscrapers, Denver was coming to life. Maybe, somehow, sanity could be restored. “You see? That couldn’t stop us.” Patrick smiled his cocky smile. “Nothing could stop us.” 

Matt looked up at his coach—his idol. Patrick looked so in control, smug and sure. End of the world, Stanley Cup—it didn’t matter to him. Winning was what he _did_. Patrick dragged a hand through Matt’s hair, pulling his head back until his throat was exposed, until he was exposed, mouth half open. And then Patrick kissed his open mouth, _claimed_ it, cocksure at kissing as he was at everything else. Matt melted into his arms, just let all his tensions go, enjoying the moment.

Patrick pulled away. He looked at Matt with adoration and pride. Matt was his boy. His elite center, words that meant something to Patrick even when they meant nothing to the rest of the world.

Matt could feel Patrick’s hand, strong and warm, reassuring on his chest. “You okay?”

Matt smiled a dreamy, languid smile, and looked out on the scattered lights. For once he wasn’t overthinking anything at all. “Yeah. Maybe we’re gonna be all right.”


End file.
